The art and craft of writing


Is writing an art or a craft? Does it come from natural talent or hard graft? Are you born a writer or can you learn to be one?


Recent debate about the value of creative writing courses – stirred up by Hanif Kureshi who disputed whether such courses could ever deliver good writing (despite teaching one himself) – has pondered the perennial question of whether writing is something that can be taught. Or is it the case that you’ve either got it or you haven’t?

But this debate’s based on a false premise. That writing is a single process – have an idea ... write it down. When actually it’s (at least) two. Writing and editing. Two separate activities. Demanding different skills. And when you look at it that way, it’s clear that writing is both an art and a craft.

You need to have a story to tell, an interesting perspective on the world, a head full of engaging characters. No one else can put those ideas in your head. Of course this is not to say that ideas are formed in a vacuum. All ideas are sparked by external stimuli – the people you meet, the experiences you have, the things you see. But how these stimuli percolate through you and coalesce into an idea for a story is all down to you and no one else.

But then you have to get that idea onto the page. You have to write it down.

I saw Michael Morpurgo on TV recently talking about this aspect of writing:

“The best thing to do is to talk a story – from your head … down your arm through your fingers onto the page and you let it flow which means mistakes and all. You don’t worry about the spelling, the punctuation - I’m sorry but you don’t, not the first time. You just get the stupid thing down there. I think it’s rather like an artist sketching. When an artist is sketching it’s letting the line flow, capturing somehow the image of it. And that’s what I do - I tell it onto the page and craft it afterwards.”

I think many new writers, including me, focus on the first part of this process - the capturing of the story. There is a tendency, perhaps, to think that once it’s down on the page the job is done. But, as Morpurgo says, this is just a sketch, an outline of the true story that's waiting to be revealed.

And just as an artist uses a palette of colours and materials to build on that sketch, give it form and shape, light and dark, texture and depth, so the writer has a palette of words. An almost infinite palette.

It’s at this point then when the work (and fun?) really begins. The work of editing, of crafting the text into shape. There’s real skill to this, it takes patience and practice. It’s about choosing the right word for the job, word by word, sentence by sentence, page by page.

In her (thoroughly recommended) book ‘Reading like a Writer,’ Francine Prose demonstrates how it is this deliberate and often painstaking word selection process that is the real skill:

“For any writer, the ability to look at a sentence and see what’s superfluous, what can be altered, revised, expanded and, especially, cut, is essential.”

She uses extracts from a range of literary examples to illustrate (and encourage) the calculated crafting that makes great writing great. And which makes writing a joy.


Perhaps the key role of the creative writing course then - alongside the vital element of encouragement and support - is to help develop the skill of editing rather more than the talent of writing. To help inexperienced writers turn their very individual ideas and stories into finished, polished works, ready for a more public readership.


What do you think? Are you an artist or a craftsperson? Do you think someone can learn to be a writer?

Hatching

I am empty-handed, and so

I go for a walk,

Amongst the sticky buds and poking green

I find it -

Smooth as stone

An enigma sealed tight

Taut with possibility.

Don’t grasp,

It will crush

Leaving nothing.

I nurture it, warm it,

Hold it close as a secret

Mindful as a new mother

I turn it over, examine it for signs

Of what it will become.

I watch.

And it begins.

Don’t hurry it

Don’t force it into the light

It will burn in the glare of exposure.

It emerges

Reveals its nascent form

I touch it, hear its breath,

Feel its heartbeat.

It stumbles,

An imperfect, uncertain thing

Unfurling, pulsing with the life I gave it.

It flutters,

Stutters across the page

And takes flight.

Footwear

From a seat by the window I can see the restless, grey lake. A boat moves jerkily out of view propelled by inexpert rowers anxious to reach the deserted jetty.
Heels click on the quarry tiled floor, black, highly polished, tightly laced shoes, the waiter making his presence known, the showman displaying his on-stage skills.
He tells me I shouldn't miss the fish chowder. I nod and add the obligatory Americano with cold milk. His metallic studs recede, the swing door barely slowing his determined progress, through to the steam-filled kitchen.
Silver boots with small heels emerge, tray balanced with accustomed ease, on outstretched hand, teapot, milk jug, cups, saucers, scones, jam, cream eagerly awaited at table six. The two women exchange cruise stories in gradually rising voices. A brief silence whilst crockery is organised, milk and tea poured, sugar spooned, scones cut and spread. The tales of disembarking at Venice continue.
The waitress glances momentarily at her silver boots, as they make their confident way back to the kitchen. The door swings again.
I shuffle my feet to ease off well-worn walking boots surreptitiously and edge them under the table. I continue with my lack of progress on twenty three down and think of fish.
Brown shoes with long, long pointed toecaps emerge from behind the counter, a surprise choice for the balding older man who moves slowly across the cafe, his long apron flapping, to clear table ten. Well - a surprise for me, but probably not for him.
There is no sign yet of my steaming chowder bowl or the answer to twenty three down. The wind whips across the distant lake and trees sway in choreographed unison. I push my boots closer to the warmth of the radiator, where they're joined by my black and red striped feet.
A familiar click, click announces the arrival of coffee. Make that two fish chowders I tell him as, at last, two rainbow coloured wellington boots cross the floor, toes turned slightly inwards, trailing wet, mud-tinged puddles.
She lowers her tall frame into the chair opposite and smiles that smile.

The Joy of Writing

THE JOY OF WRITING

I searched for inspiration

but nothing could I find.

I trawled my tired and fuddled brain,

every quadrant of my mind.

I tried in vain to mind-map

but my writing pad stayed blank.

Perhaps some soothing music would help

but into a doze I sank.

So next, I thought I'd meditate.

Maybe help would come.

I sat on the floor and closed my eyes,

contemplated 'til my bum was numb.

But still no muse, no creative ideas

entered my empty head.

So I thought I'd completely distract myself

and take a bath instead.

One hour later, back I came,

with wrinkled fingers and toes.

Warm, relaxed and clean was I,

pen poised, still nothing shows.

And then I turned to alcohol

to try to free my head.

Purely in the pursuit of art, you know,

I emptied a bottle of red.

Frustrated, disheartened, fed up I became

and so I deserted my pen.

I  resorted to cleaning 'neath the kitchen sink

and tidying the den.

I washed my mascara brush, of course,

and polished the kettle as well

but still I could think of nothing to write

and then, in my head, rang a bell.

I could write about writing nothing at all!

And, in a flash, this poem came.

So if you're not smart or creative today,

you could always try the mundane!



Soulmates

How did the writers who lunch meet?  We met through an Adult Education Course at Kirklees College called ‘Creative Writing for Beginners.’  This is not the type of class where you ‘bring a friend’.  The chances are that you will be unique among your friends and they will view you with a mixture of awe and bafflement. 

So we pitched up alone, a brave shot in the dark in which you trust in fate that you will find like minded folk who will accept you and might even like you.  Added to this, you will soon be reading out your work, whereby you might as well be shining a light into your soul.  Risky maybe, but don’t most things that are worth having in life involve an element of risk?

That introductory week we were set our first homework task, a short piece of fiction. Yes, homework.  It’s just like being back at school again.  Old habits die hard.  If you left it to the last minute then, you will inevitably do so now.

Reading out your work is at once terrifying and thrilling.  You can hear your voice talking to a silent audience and you have no idea what they think, but you forge on.  You will probably be shaking slightly.  But something magic happens.  You are making yourself vulnerable but at the same time you are connecting with others in an immediate and intimate way.  Your words hit their ears and their brains instantly process them, each person interpreting what they hear in their own unique way.  For those few minutes, time stops.  Your classmates’ varying worries and thoughts are momentarily suspended as they submit themselves to Art.  There is something about it that lifts the soul of all involved. 

You finish and there is a brief second where you look up from your work and half smile in embarrassment, but you also feel triumphant, like you have faced all your demons and won.  You wait, adrenalin pumping around your body, for the first response.  Compliments such as ‘I really like that’ or ‘that’s good’ are jumped on and savoured like sweet treats.  Relief floods your body.  They like it!  You didn’t make a fool of yourself!  You belong here, at least for this week.  And now it’s your turn to sit back and listen to someone else.  And you know just how they feel.